


I was damned by the light coming out of your eyes

by MoonDrunkWolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Mentions of Deaton - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Derek Hale, Witches, implied sterek, mentions of Sheriff Stilinski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonDrunkWolf/pseuds/MoonDrunkWolf
Summary: Derek's relatively new in town and hates the godawful supermarket down the street from his loft. On a midnight food run, a dangerous encounter and a run in with a boy with beautiful whiskey eyes might just change his mind.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 17
Kudos: 363





	I was damned by the light coming out of your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Robert Pattinson's "Let Me Sign." Yes, Twilight is a guilty pleasure... Also Frozen, from which I unabashedly borrowed a line. 
> 
> Didn't tag this, but please know Derek does have brief symptoms of a panic attack at the beginning, but it doesn't actually develop into a full-fledged attack. 
> 
> Obviously, I don't own Teen Wolf or any of these characters. 
> 
> Unbetaed by anyone but myself. I do not give my permission for my work to be posted on any other site.

She’s standing there by a broken tree— 

Hands are all twisted, she’s pointing at me.

I was damned by the light coming out of her eyes

As she spoke with a voice that disrupted the sky.

She said, “Hold on lover, yeah, don’t be ashamed,

I will wrap you in my arms and know that you’ll be safe.”

Let me sign. Let me sign. -- _Let Me Sign,_ Robert Pattinson

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Derek is in the supermarket when it happens. Despite the proximity to his new apartment, he hates this supermarket. The lights seem to shine brighter than necessary, the fruits and vegetables are always either too unripe or too ripe to be edible, and the same girl is behind the counter every time he’s come in, like she has nowhere else to be at 11:30 in the morning even though she doesn’t look a day over sixteen.

It’s not 11:30 a.m. now, though. He’s only been here a handful of times, but he can’t avoid it tonight. He had left the construction site later than he planned, too oblivious to the passage of time as he tore down the wreckage of his family’s home with his bare hands, and he has no food at the loft. He’s too tired to trek to the good market on the opposite side of town but would rather eat something tonight that’s not a bucket of grease from the dinner down the street, so he forces himself to stop at the damn supermarket.

 _It’s almost eleven o’clock on Tuesday night_ , he reasons, _no one will even be here._ He sits in the car for ten minutes staring at the poorly lit "Johnson's Supermarket" sign flashing above the entry. The “k” in market is out of place, unsecured at the top and leaning precariously towards the “e.” It looks like it’s mere seconds from falling and, as he walks into the store, he almost wishes it would crash down onto his head and spare him. 

That girl is at the counter again with her elbow on the counter and chin resting on her closed fist as she pops her chewing gum obnoxiously. Derek ignores the itch at the back of his neck as her eyes rove over his passing form. Besides her, he can only hear two other heartbeats located in the main store, and one farther away, probably in the back stockroom. He turns in the opposite direction, away from the other people and away from the sensation that has crept over him as he stood paused near the registers. It’s warm pressure at the nape of his neck and then lower, near the base of his spine, and it’s unsettling that he has no idea what it is.

After wandering for a few minutes and finding nothing good, he hesitantly makes his way to the fruits and vegetables. Maybe it’s his lucky day, and he’ll find something good. He snorts to himself at the thought— him, lucky? Yeah right. He’s looking at the bananas and trying to decide if he wants to risk the pile to his right that are green from top to bottom; he determinately does not let his eyes wander over to the left, to the brown pile of mush he caught a glimpse of when he first entered the aisle.

He’s in the supermarket, it's closing on midnight on a Tuesday, and he's looking at fucking bananas when it happens. In the late hour and during his silent debate, he’s let his guard drop and forgotten about the others in the store. There’s a sharp peel of laughter behind him, just a few feet away from him, that startles him enough that his claws elongate and his eyes flash before he can stop them. His senses kick in once more, and Derek can almost feel the person slither up to his side. A small but strong hand grips his shoulder tightly, and he can feel her moist breath on his ear when she leans towards him. Her voice is low and husky when she speaks.

“Well, hello there, handsome," she says slowly, dragging out the words, "I was about to leave empty-handed, but it looks like tonight just might be my lucky night.”

She punctuates her statement by using her grip on his shoulder to forcibly turns him towards her. She laughs again and, suddenly, Derek can’t breathe. All he sees is blonde hair shining with a yellow-orange tint in the horrible florescent lighting; all he smells is her scent, overpowering and dark, like burnt leather and smoke; all he can hear is that laugh, throaty and rough, and a coarse voice that grates in his ears, his head.

He’s frozen, shock and fear flooding his system as her hand, ice cold to the touch, slides down his shoulder to wrap around his upper arm tightly. He can’t make out her words — there are sounds tumbling around him and her lips, her red smirking lips, are moving, but he cant’t, he can’t. The world is shaking around him, and his head is pounding, pounding like a thundering herd of wild stallions.

Just when he thinks his head will implode, there’s a new scent, new sounds around him, and he turns into them without thought. The sensation of warm pressure on his neck and his lower back returns, but heavier and hotter than before. The steady pressure and heat grounds him though and, somehow, his body feels lighter than it has in years.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stiles is staring groggily at the box of cereal in his hands when the shrill laughter pierces the air. He drops the box like a hot coal in his surprise, and it hits the floor with a smack and the rustle of dry grains and plastic. Hastily, heat rising in his cheeks, Stiles bends to retrieve the dented box and shoves it back on the shelf. He’s poised to make a quick get away from the area when his spark lights up inside him, just under his breastbone. It had flared momentarily a few minutes ago with the tinkling of the overhead bell at the doorway, but now it pulses inside him like a second heartbeat.

The pressure in his chest quickly becomes a deep ache and, before he is conscious of doing so, Stiles allows his spark to push him halfway across the store. He finds himself in the fruit section, and he hears that high-pitched laughter again and cringes. His eyes move across the area quickly before settling on the couple near the banana stand. The man is facing the opposite direction, mostly angled away from Stiles, but he can see broad shoulders under a stiff black leather jacket. He looks past the man at the woman and can see a coy tilt to her lips and darkly shadowed eyes. Her gaze moves from the man to meet Stiles’s eyes and, for a quick moment, just mere milliseconds really, her faces shifts into something _other_. His spark is going wild inside his chest now, so much so that he can feel the power flowing through his arms and down into his hands without his command. God, his spark hasn’t felt this wild and volatile since puberty.

Stiles focuses in on the woman once more when she suddenly lifts her free hand and grabs the man’s arm, her grip so tight that Stiles can see her knuckles turning white from halfway down the aisle. Stiles can see the man's shoulders tense, shift slightly upward as he his head tilts downward. There's blood dripping from his balled fists and Stiles can hear short, catching breaths. In the blink of an eye, Stiles is somehow standing beside them, and his hands move on their accord; his left lands gently on the nape of the man’s neck in a gesture of comfort before sliding down to rest on his lower back, and then his right hand is suddenly locking around the woman’s wrist. His spark flares when his skin meets hers, and her entire form shifts again to reveal the dark creature inside her.

“Oh, a werewolf and a witch. I really am getting lucky tonight,” she rasps, and her lips twist up into a cruel grin.

Before he can reply, she raises her other hand to the level of his chest, her palm facing him and radiating dark energy that slithers across him like a serpent. Suddenly, her fingers curly into a fist before she pulls her hand inward and, suddenly, Stiles feels the air leave his lungs in a painful rip.

They lock eyes for moments, hours, seconds — briefly, his vision darkens, and he imagines his prone, pale form lying twisted on the filthy ground in this godforsaken grocery store, and next to him lies a man in a leather jacket with his heart ripped out and dark blood obscuring his features. As quickly as the scene appears in his mind, it disappears, and Stiles has a second to think _no, NO,_ before his hand clenches unintentionally. He can feel his fingers sinking into her cold skin, the flesh soft and waxy, and her eyes widen in shock.

The woman shrieks in pain and her voices echoes with the tainted magic inside her as she screams.

“What are you doing?! You can’t escape my magic, it’s impossible!” Her voices rises as her panic does as she feels him drain her power and begin to pull it into himself.

“You’re wrong, bitch,” Stiles smirks. “I’m not a witch.”

Her mouth gapes as she gasps for breath, and he sees her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her faces begins to turn a sickly pale blue and, as he feels the last remaining dregs of her power leave her body, he grins toothily at her and explains — “I am a motherfucking spark, bitch, and I won’t let you take what doesn’t belong to you.”

Her eyes turn black in terror for a quick second before Stiles pulls on her magic with all his will, and the woman implodes in whirlwind of smoke, the dark fragments of her soul like ash and dirt. Magic swells inside him as her dark magic wrestles with his spark, and he feels stretched at the seams. For a moment, he can feel the dark magic suffocating his spark, and his body convulses as dark red and black bursts of sparks spew from his palms. His fear that the dark magic will win grips him by the throat and steals his breath away.

Then suddenly, warm hands grip his, stemming the flow of the tainted magic. At the touch, the press of heated skin against his own, he feels his spark jump again. This time, his magic overpowers hers, forces the dark magic out of his body in a shockwave of heat and pressure, and the lights overhead explode into thousands of shards of glass as the shelves around them crash to the ground.

As Stiles regains his breath, he looks around them and sees the destruction he caused. The fragments from the lightbulbs are littering every visible surface, the metal shelves are in pieces, and various food products are strewn all around like the remnants of a gory massacre.

“Holy shit.” His voice rasps like an old smoker’s, and he lets out a strangled laugh. “Holy… holy shit.” That’s all he can think, all he can say, looking at the aftermath.

Hands tighten around his, and he finally remembers there’s a man standing before him. The breath that he’s almost caught catches again when he finally takes in the man’s features. He’s tall, taller than Stiles by a few inches, and there’s black hair everywhere. His windswept bedhead — _sex hair_ , Stiles thinks inappropriately and, _I did that, ohmygod I gave him sex hair and not even with the sex!_ —, his thick eyebrows, the so-hot-it’s-criminal scruff on his chin and cheeks, and there’s even a hint of dark chest hair just above the ‘v’ of his shirt. And his eyes, holy god, those eyes are the most beautiful he’s ever seen, even when they flash electric blue at the scent of fiery magic around them. 

“Your eyebrows are magnificent,” Stiles breathes out like a prayer. Said magnificent eyebrows rise, and the man lets out a bemused huff. Stiles realizes he voiced his thought aloud, and he can feel heat rise immediately in his cheeks.

“Sorry, sorry! That was inappropriate, this is so awkward, shit!” The man’s thick beautiful brows rise somehow even higher, and Stiles backpedals quickly, his tongue suddenly feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth.

“Shit, no, I’m weird, not you. You’re not awkward, you’re gorgeous! I mean— that’s not what I— I — shit!” Stiles cheeks are so hot he could replace the sun, and his heart is racing in his chest. The man is looking at him like he's the weirdest thing he's seen today, even though they're still standing in the middle of this blown-up grocery store.

“Okay, right, well.. I should head out now, sorry about all —,” his voice wavers as his tries to gesture at the wreckage around them and realizes that the man still grips his hands, tight enough the he can’t escape, firm but not forceful — like he’s trying to keep Stiles here.

He makes his gaze return those beautiful kaleidoscope eyes and sees that they’re already on him— still on him—, the man’s gaze steady, like he has no intention of looking anywhere else. _Oh_ , Stiles thinks, his spark racing wildly in his chest again, but it’s different than before. He no longer feels like his spark is about to rip out of his chest but, instead, it feels lighter than it has in years, popping and fizzing like warm champagne in his chest and more malleable than it’s ever been.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Why is his voice still so breathless?

“Oh,” the man repeats, and it doesn’t sound stupid coming from him. It sounds like a revelation.

“Stiles,” Stiles says suddenly, and the man’s eyebrows dip down in confusion. “Me, I’m Stiles. My name is Stiles.”

“Oh,” the man says again; then, after a few moments, “Derek. I’m Derek.”

Something settles in Stiles’s chest at the name.

“Derek,” Stiles repeats like a broken record. “Hi.”

The shy smile that lights up Derek’s face is gorgeous, and Stiles has only known him for a hot second, but he thinks everything he does will be breathtaking. He might not survive this encounter.

They stand there for seconds, minutes, years, just smiling bashfully at one another, and Stiles's heart is beating quickly again for a whole new reason. His hands are warm encased as they are in Derek’s still, and he can feel them heating up even more before a spark of electricity bursts from the dead lights above them.

They jump, startled, and Stiles apologizes immediately. “Sorry! My spark is.. it’s — it’s acting strange,” he admits sheepishly.

The man, Derek, smiles gently at Stiles before looking around them. As he finally takes in the mess around them, he huffs out another chuckle.

“Wow, you’re some Spark,” he says, and the awe and admiration Stiles hears in his smooth voice causes more sparks to leap from the light fixtures. He laughs again as the blush on Stiles’s cheeks flare yet again, and it’s the most beautiful sound Stiles thinks he’s ever heard. He wants to live inside Derek’s warm, kind laughter, wants to wrap Derek's smile around him like a warm blanket and never leave the sphere of his glorious presence.

Derek inhales deeply and smiles again. Stiles suddenly wonders what scents he’s releasing for the nose of the supernatural creature in front of him, and his fingers twitch at the thought.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Derek can smell the myriad of emotions coming from Stiles, the stark scents of embarrassment, lust, and relief all momentarily covering the warmth of his natural scent, and Derek smiles comfortingly at him.

“Thank you,” he says wholeheartedly. “That was, I just — I just couldn’t. Thank you, Stiles.”

God, that blush makes Derek want to see it all over him, see if he can make it reach his chest as easily as it seems to rise to his cheeks. Derek vehemently avoids the thought of other places that flush with blood and doggedly keeps his gaze on Stiles’s.

Stiles huffs out a short laugh, his body swaying as he shifts from one foot to another. He makes an aborted move to raise his hand before realizing that their hands are still joined. Derek considers letting go — he _should_ let go, this is probably weird — but Stiles hasn't shown any signs of discomfort, so Derek keeps his hands right where they are, wrapped around long, strong fingers and warm, solid palms.

“Don’t mention it,” Stiles is saying as Derek tunes back in. “Really, it’s not a big deal, just doing what any decent person would do.”

“I highly doubt anyone else could do what you just did,” Derek says in amusement, lips ticking up in gentle smirk.

“Come home with me, and I’ll show you what else I can do,” Stiles replies with a waggle of his eyebrows before his eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh my god, I did not mean to say that! I did not mean to proposition you, not after what you just went through!” This time, Stiles does pull his hand away to cover his face as he continues in distress, “Not that I meant proposition you— or anyone, that’d be horrible and sleazy! Oh god, I’m so sorry! Please, stop talking, Stiles.”

Derek gently grips the hand covering Stiles face and moves it down once more.

“Stiles,” he says gently and waits for those whiskey eyes to meet his. “How about a trade? You give me your number and let me take you out for dinner? We can talk about what else you can do later on,” Derek says playfully, and quirks an eyebrow at the surprised squeak and the gape of Stiles’s mouth.

“Ye—Yeah?” Stiles asks shakily. “Yeah, yeah. That sounds good. Really good.” He smiles shyly at Derek again, and Derek is helpless but to return it.

Derek takes a second to enjoy the moment before clearing his throat.

“We uh, we should probably call someone,” he says, looking again at the scene around them. To be honest, he's impressed with Stiles ability. To be able to pull another creature's magic from them and use his body as vessel, to be able to dispel that magic without blowing apart himself (or Derek, _christ_ ) — well, he must be very powerful. 

As Derek surveys the damage of Stiles's (relatively) harmless magical explosion, he abruptly remembers that there are two other people in the building, and he extends his hearing. There's the heartbeat in the backroom, slower than before and Derek can just smell a hint of weed as circulates through the ventilation. It takes Derek a moment to locate the second heartbeat, the cashier's, because she's outside, puffing noisily on a cigarette and singing along with the music coming from near her person, probably an iPod. Well, Derek surmises, the two workers don't seem to care a lick about the store, but at least they're both still alive and, at the moment, unaware of the mess in the store and the people who caused it. 

“Oh,” Stiles says after Derek suggests calling someone and then again, his voice rising in pitch.

“Oh! Oh my god, my dad is going to kill me!” Stiles head whips around in panic, “Shit! _Deaton_ is going to kill me!”

Derek’s not surprised that the most powerful being in Beacon Hills works with Deaton, but — “Your dad?”

Stiles’s voice is distraught when he moans, "The _Sheriff_! He’s going to be so pissed, he hates covering up my uh, my incidents. He’s running out of excuses; the townsfolk are going to start to wonder why we can’t fix our gas mains and get control of the ever-growing mountain lion population. God, _Beacon Hills._ ”

Derek's silent for a moment — he wants to ask about the mountain lion thing, but he figures that’s a conversation for another time. For now, he settles on, “Well, if you can handle a dark witch in a matter of moments, I think you can handle whatever your dad and Deaton have in store for you.”

Stiles laughs lowly, but his scent tells Derek that he’s unconvinced, worried about the reactions of his father and his mentor, but he does seem to calm down a bit. Derek smiles warmly at him.

“Don’t worry, Stiles. I’ll be here with you.” If he’s promising to be here for more than tonight, well… no one can prove anything.

The sincere smile Stiles gives him makes him think otherwise, but Stiles doesn’t comment on that. In the now darkened store, Stiles's amber eyes somehow seem to shine beta gold as he keeps them trained on Derek and breathes in deeply.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sparks fly from above again and, looking into the burning whiskey eyes across from him, Derek thanks whatever is up above that he walked into this damn grocery store tonight.


End file.
